


Beautifully Bored

by Talvikuningatar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bored Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, I know it's a cliche, M/M, Sherlock is a drama queen, and i don't care, no plot whatsover, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvikuningatar/pseuds/Talvikuningatar
Summary: Sherlock is bored and John is not being very helpful. Tea doesn't cure boredom, does it now?





	Beautifully Bored

**Author's Note:**

> First fic here, and oh wow, am I uncomfortable posting anything.  
> I thought we'd get the good old bored Sherlock cliché out of the way first. Please note that English is, like, my third language, so I make mistakes. Prepositions are my arch enemy. If something's bothering you too much, I appreciate corrections, though you probably have better things to do than trying to improve some random weirdo's grammar.  
> On with the show!

"I'm bored," Sherlock announced.

He was lying on his back on the sofa, one bent arm covering his eyes, the other hanging limply over the armrest. He felt dreadful. There was not a single thing to do in the entire world and he could almost feel his braincells dying, one by one. They were dropping dead like unlucky flies caught between windowpanes. John was not in the same room either, which wasn't helping. What was the point of John having a day off if he wasn't going to spend it with Sherlock?

There was a soft rustle as John put away his newspaper, and then Sherlock could hear an exaggerated sigh from the kitchen. "No, you're not."

That was _preposterous_. How could John know how Sherlock was feeling? Especially when he was in a different room, the bastard.

"Of course I am," Sherlock said, infusing his voice with indignation. "You cannot begin to _imagine_ what it's like to have a mind like mine. I have nothing to do, and this endless tedium is _killing_ me. My brain is rotting as we speak." That, he thought, was sufficiently dramatic.

"Sherlock." Chair legs scraped against the floor and then there were footsteps, coming towards the kitchen doorway. That was an agreeable development, at least. "Stop being such a drama queen. You finished the last case the day before yesterday. Molly gave you a box of who knows _what_ for your experiments yesterday, and whatever you were doing with that absolutely disgusting sheep head is still unfinished in the fridge. You can _not_ be bored."

"You don't understand me," Sherlock accused. John had stopped at the doorway, and that was entirely too far from where Sherlock was. "I'm _dying_ of boredom. My pulse is getting slower and slower as we speak. I can hardly breathe."

He could almost hear John rolling his eyes – like marbles on hardwood floor.

"Liar."

Sherlock considered lifting his arm enough to peek at John, but it seemed like too much effort. He could imagine how John looked anyway, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, a half-indulgent, half-annoyed smile on his lips.

"Bored, John, not a liar. Two completely different things. I know you're not quite stupid enough to confuse them, really."

John huffed a laugh. "Thanks, Sherlock. And yes, you bloody well are a liar." There was a soft swish of cloth when John straightened, and then footsteps returning to the kitchen. Which was the exact wrong direction. God, John was dense sometimes. "I'll make you a nice cuppa, all right? It'll make you feel better."

"Dull, John. It won't save me from boredom. It won't protect my brain from melting and trickling out of my ears and nose."

"No need to be gross about it, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was a little disappointed that John hadn't bothered to point out even liquified brains couldn't escape through one's nose or ears without some additional damage to the skull and soft tissue; as a doctor, he should have been aware of that, at least.

"And," John continued, "yes, it does. Alternatively, you're always free to take nice, refreshing walk. Or how about cleaning up the papers from the desk? I bet even you can't know what you'll find if you go digging through the bottom layers, they've been there _forever_."

Sherlock huffed, but it was clear John had made up his mind, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about that, save from getting up and going to the kitchen to stop John from making tea, which he was not going to do, obviously. He was suffering way too much to actually _move_. And he most certainly wasn't going to go out or, the horror of horrors, start _cleaning_. They were even worse options than lying still and wasting away. Ordinary, dull people did that sort of things. John also did them, sometimes, but he _was_ making an admirable effort to pretend he was dull and ordinary. Most people were daft enough to believe it, too. It wasn't fooling Sherlock, of course, though he had to admit he appreciated when John took care of some domestic rituals that appeared to be necessary – it wasn't fair to leave all the work to Mrs Hudson.

For a while, he listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, John filling the kettle, clicking it on, rummaging through the cupboards to find the teabags, sugar and two clean mugs.

Observing that didn't keep Sherlock entertained for long, though.

"John," he called.

No response.

"John!" he repeated, adding a hint of demand in his tone this time.

He got another put-upon sigh. "What about that thing you were composing before we got that case? You haven't finished it."

"Dull."

"No it's not." He could hear John turning away from the counter, opening the fridge. Milk. "It was good, you know it was. You get amazing sounds out of that violin when you make the effort to play instead of torturing the poor, defenceless thing."

"I don't want to."

"You don't want to. Right."

Sherlock could hear the kettle coming to boil. He decided to allow John a moment to prepare the tea in peace, but once there was the clink of mugs being lifted from the table and John's footsteps started approaching, he felt like he had every right to continue again.

"I'm still dying, John."

"You are fine, Sherlock. Trust me, I _am_ a doctor." John stopped by the sofa. "Get up and drink your tea, princess."

Sherlock lowered his arm a bit, opened one eye and used it to glower at John. John looked back at him, eyebrows raised, and offered him one of the mugs. The tea did smell good, and Sherlock decided it was possible he wanted it anyway. He lifted both hands and allowed John to set the mug in them.

"Hmm," he said.

John snorted. "You're most welcome."

He sounded entirely too amused, considering Sherlock's suffering. Sherlock gave him another sharp glare, with both eyes this time, and lowered the mug to rest on his belly. The warmth seeping from it felt rather nice, he had to admit. It did nothing to the boredom, of course, but it was still pleasant, and he tightened his hold of the mug to feel it better, until it almost burned the skin of his palms through the porcelain.

John kept standing by the sofa, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, sipping his own tea.

"You have to sit up to drink it, Sherlock," he pointed out after a while. "It's hot, we don't want you spilling it on your face, do we? And it would be nice if you made some room for me too."

That sounded much better. Sharing the sofa with John was decidedly not boring. Quite the opposite, in fact. Within the past three weeks and four days, it had led to all kinds of _interesting_ things happening. Sherlock wouldn't have opposed any of those things repeating themselves somewhere in the near future.

He sat up, the mug still cradled in his hands. John smiled at him and took a seat by the armrest. Sherlock shuffled around enough so that he could curl into John's side, and John, being the lovely, obliging man that he was, wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Sherlock let out a content sight and tasted his tea. It was, of course, perfect – sweet and strong and still almost too hot to drink. John always made his tea perfect. He wondered if there was a scientific explanation to why it tasted better when John made it. He'd tried following John's process exactly, a few times, but the results had always been mediocre at best. John had not seen any issue with Sherlock's tea, but Sherlock had become to suspect John could be satisfied with anything that was warm and approximately the right colour. After that experiment, he'd decided to leave making tea to John whenever possible.

"Better?" John asked, interrupting his musings.

"I'm slightly less bored," Sherlock admitted grudgingly. He didn't mind the interruption, but he didn't want to seem too happy, lest John decided to get up and leave him alone again.

"Thought so." John pressed a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "You weren't really bored in the first place anyway, were you? You just wanted to cuddle and couldn't be arsed to say so."

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "I was bored. Am bored. I need a case." Or more body contact with John, that could definitely work too.

John ignored him. "Seriously, Sherlock. You have no problem telling me to get you your phone, or a pen, or anything. Even when I have to walk across the whole flat and the damn thing is in your own pocket. I don't see what's stopping you from demanding _this_. Hell, Sherlock, you could just come and drag me here if you prefer that. I wouldn't put up a fight."

"If you did, you would lose it."

John's hand rose up to tug his hair, not hard. It felt better than he would have expected.

"I'm almost sure I wouldn't, actually. I am the soldier here, _civilian_."

"Mhm. That you are." Sherlock snuggled closer to John and sipped his tea. It had cooled enough to be the optimal drinking temperature, and he took a bigger gulp, then another.

John laughed and kissed his hair again. "You like that, don't you?" he asked, and he wasn't referring to the tea. He took last drink from his own mug and reached out to put it on the coffee table. "Quite a lot, if I'm not mistaken."

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "It's only fair. You like everything about me." He lifted his mug, about to finish the tea, but John caught his chin, turned his head, and pressed a light kiss on his lips.

"Almost everything, at least," John agreed. "You could be a little less of a dick sometimes."

"No, I couldn't," Sherlock said. He finished his tea, set the mug on the floor and turned back to John. "Lie down. I'm still bored, and you're supposed to hold me." Sherlock pushed John's chest with both hands. "On your back now."

John smiled. His eyes were very dark and very warm in the dim light of the living room. Before John, Sherlock had never used the word "warm" to describe anyone's eyes. "Whatever you want. Give me some room here, then."

Sherlock had no intention of leaving the sofa even for a moment, so he placed one foot on the floor and rested most of his weight on the other knee, wedged against the back of the sofa, and allowed John to lie down between his legs. Once John was settled, Sherlock straightened his own legs and arranged himself on top of John. It took some effort to acquire the maximum amount of contact without jostling John too much, but during the time this sort of thing had been allowed, Sherlock had perfected it into an art. When he was done, his head resting on John's chest, right over his steadily beating heart, Sherlock sighed in contentment. It turned into a moan when John's hand slid into his hair, but he knew John wouldn't hold that against him.

"Not bored anymore, I take it?" John asked. He sounded a tiniest bit smug, but Sherlock decided to overlook that, for this once.

"No. I'm good," he said.

"Thought so."

John's hand stroked his hair, warm and perfect. Sherlock nuzzled his chest, breathed in the scent of his skin. The man had no right to smell so good. He had no right to be so absolutely wonderful that sometimes Sherlock felt as if he couldn't breathe when John wasn't right there with him.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me," Sherlock said, partly because it was the unequivocal truth, and partly because putting it to words would coax an interesting reaction out of John. Sherlock was expecting visible shock and, if he was lucky, some stuttering.

John didn't disappoint. He went still under Sherlock, stopped even breathing. Sherlock waited, allowing his fingers to stroke John's side, slip under his jumper and shirt to find bare, warm skin. He could hear John's heartbeat, faster than before.

John started breathing again, and the hand in Sherlock's hair resumed its stroking.

"You -" John started, swallowed, cleared his throat. "You're the – I mean I -"

Sherlock turned his head enough to press a slow, lingering kiss on John's sternum through the layers of his clothing. "It's all right, John. I know."

John exhaled, and Sherlock pretended not to notice how shuddery it was.

"You're … important. The most – I mean… _Sherlock_ …"

"Hush," Sherlock whispered. "I know, John. I know."

John nodded. Sherlock lifted his head enough to meet John's eyes, and to look on John's face said everything he couldn't put into words. Sherlock smiled and returned his head on John's chest. John was not ready for big confessions yet, and that was all right. There would be time for that, one day. Sherlock would say those three silly little words, and John would choke on his response before managing to say them back. They would both mean what they said. It would feel nice, but it wouldn't change anything, because what they had was already perfect.

For now, Sherlock was content to let John express his feelings with actions. John made tea and put up with Sherlock's moods and didn't throw away the sheep head and Molly's lung samples, and that spelled clear enough a message. He stopped whatever he was doing only to be able to curl together on the sofa, just feeling each other breathe. He slept in Sherlock's bed every night and expressed his feelings with his hands and his lips and every inch of his skin.

Sherlock tightened his hold of John and closed his eyes. Sometimes a little boredom was a good thing, he decided, because it got him this. Eventually, he would return to his experiments, and he would finish his composition, and, at some point, there would be a new case, but for now, he was content to lie here listening to John's heartbeat and feel these little human emotions that had not turned out to be as dull as he'd always believed.


End file.
